Margaret Way - Six Australian Heroes

Rhiannon heaved another sigh but this was a relieved one. She said, however, ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

He studied her for a long moment. The coral camisole top showed off more of her delicious curves than he’d seen to-date. The skin of her shoulders was smooth and creamy, her neck was long and slender.

Despite a hard day she looked glossy and perfectly groomed and she smelled nice.

He’d fully expected her to wear trousers or a long skirt, so the shortish skirt—his lips twisted at the thought—was a concession she’d probably been forced, against her better judgement, to make. Her legs, he thought wryly, were enough to tempt any man to think of her in his bed.

‘Maybe we make a good team?’ he suggested. ‘I can fill in the—very few—gaps you leave.’

She half smiled at him then turned her profile away to look at the moon as if suddenly remembering she wasn’t talking to him.

He frowned. There’d been an elusive quality in her expression that tantalised him. There were the changes four years had brought to her. Her face had fined down a little and it wasn’t as easy to read, but there was still an irrepressible quality to her at times.

There was maturity now, and competence—you couldn’t doubt that—but there was still that hint of vulnerability.

Why the hell should she be turned off men? he wondered suddenly.

Wasn’t it something a twenty-two-year-old with a painful experience might lay claim to but a twenty-six-year-old, who had patently got her act together, would be able to put behind her?

He grimaced suddenly. He, of all people, should know how hard some things were to strip from your consciousness; how hard it was not to tar certain situations with the same brush.

He stared down at his champagne glass with narrowed eyes and a hard cast to his mouth. Was he trying to say to himself it was all right for him to decide to leave love alone but another matter for Rhiannon Fairfax?

He started to analyse the thought but the first guests chose that moment to arrive.

Several hours later, the food had been consumed with gratifying enthusiasm and a happy, well-fed throng got down to the dancing end of the evening.

So far so good, Rhiannon thought, and crossed her fingers.

Mary Richardson was in her element; she literally glowed as she mixed with her friends, none of whom had shown any tendency to be wild so far. Some did look way-out, some had raised their eyebrows at the formality of things; they were obviously high-spirited but if that was the worst you could say about them, it was going to be OK.

Both Matt and Lee Richardson had been perfect, Matt in an obviously welcoming, enthusiastic role that seemed to come naturally to him, and he had already met some of the guests, whereas Lee had provided a laid-back yet at the same time subtly commanding presence.

Rhiannon had seen both men and women eye him with unwitting respect, although in the case of some of the women there’d been open speculation that had then transferred to her—Lee had rarely left her side. “Lucky you” some of those gazes had patently said, causing her to squirm inwardly a little.

And Andrea Richardson, who appeared to have come partnerless to the party, was certainly no wallflower, but, for those in the know, from the way they ignored each other you could feel the dislike and hostility between Andrea and Lee. You could also see that Mary and Andrea were close.

As the dinner was cleared the DJ, who’d been playing softly in the background, started to wind up to a more throbbing beat.

‘You can relax now,’ Lee said into her ear as he took her hand.

‘I thought I’d been a model of relaxation,’ she replied.

‘No,’ he contradicted. ‘You’ve been a great hostess but anyone who knows you could detect a certain preoccupation with the food and the service.’

Rhiannon had to laugh. ‘Sorry.’

‘That’s all right but that area of responsibility is at an end now.’

‘There’s still the coffee and—’

‘Rhiannon,’ he ordered, ‘switch off. Do you dance?’

‘Well.’ She hesitated.

‘Either one does or one doesn’t.’

‘It’s not as simple as that,’ she objected. ‘One can but maybe not that well, for example. One—’

‘Forgive me for interrupting but I can’t imagine any finishing-school worth its salt sending you out without that skill.’

She stared into his eyes with a tinge of exasperation. ‘That’s a long time ago. I—’

But this time he put his finger to her lips and drew her into his arms.

They danced well together. Too well together, she came to think as she felt his body against hers, his hand on her waist. It was heady stuff.

She’d have liked to be able to stare over his shoulder but her gaze took to roaming over his thick, short dark hair and she wondered how it would feel to run her fingers through it. Then she found the strong, tanned line of his throat fascinating and, although her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, she could feel the play of his muscles through the stuff of his shirt and the fine silk and mohair of his jacket, and it produced a little thrill of sensation down her body.

That got worse, or more thrilling, as she thought of his lean, hard body only in his swimming shorts as she’d seen it earlier. He’d smelt of sweat then and leather and chalk. Now there was a hint of an astringent cologne and fresh linen, but whichever, she thought with a little trip of surprise she immediately corrected, he was potently attractive to her.

There was still another sensation to deal with. She recalled the mastery of the way he drove his powerful car and the embarrassing comparison it had brought to mind; his mastery over her body in bed.

They definitely weren’t in bed but it was his direction, his expert handling of her as they danced that was making her feel as light as gossamer and open to the rhythm of the music. She felt undoubtedly sexy as she moved, not only her feet, but also her body to the beat.

‘You didn’t honestly believe you weren’t any good at this?’ he queried as her skirt and her hair belled out and he held her around the waist with both hands.

‘I—that wasn’t the point I was trying to make,’ she replied breathlessly.

‘Granted.’ He smiled sardonically, pulled her back into his arms and spoke into her ear. ‘You were trying to come up with a way to get out of dancing with me. But you’re more than a good dancer, Rhiannon.’

‘Actually, I’m surprised,’ she confessed. ‘It’s been so long, I did think I’d be all thumbs or whatever the equivalent it is with feet. Must be like riding a bicycle.’

‘Why has it been so long?’

‘All sorts of reasons!’ she said lightly.

‘No, tell me,’ he insisted, and he slowed the tempo deliberately so that they were barely moving and she was pressed against him with his arms wrapped around her back and his hands on her hips.

‘You … you can’t make me.’ She bit her lip as she felt his breath on her neck.

He eyed the flush of exertion in her cheeks and the faint dew of sweat just below her hairline. He noted the slight quiver of her lips and felt the tremors running through her body, the look of surprised uncertainty in her eyes.

He had no need to question the effect on him of her skin and her perfume.

He said, ‘I don’t need to make you. When two people affect each other the way we do, surely we have to talk about it?’

Rhiannon tried to think straight. The music had moved to another powerful beat but he danced them to the spot where they’d watched the moon rise earlier, where the level of noise was not so high and they could talk more normally.

She stared over his shoulder for a moment. The area they’d left was crowded and the coloured strobe lights the DJ had set up were turning people pink, purple and green.